


The Flowering of the Very Good, Very Bad Orchid

by okapi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Heaven is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Orchid, Plants, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27208486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Aziraphale gives Crowley an orchid.For the 2020 Spook Me Ficathon. Prompt: PLANT.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41
Collections: Spook Me Ficathon 2020





	The Flowering of the Very Good, Very Bad Orchid

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Small Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit) for the beta. And my sister, the orchidist, for the original idea. 
> 
> The original characters are not really original. They are from H. G. Wells' short story "The Flowering of the Strange Orchid."

Aziraphale, angel and part-time rare book dealer, was ignorant of the speculative flavour of buying orchids when he bought one for the first, and last, time. 

Aziraphale accepted the orchid-monger’s assertion that the wrapped bundle in his hands was a _Dracula vampira_. He trusted the claim that the brown shriveled lump of tissue would, with a month’s dutiful care, produce large, dramatic blooms. The bundle was not moribund or dead; of that, Aziraphale was certain. It was a respectable purchase, fair value for money, and Aziraphale was satisfied.

It was October, and what better token of regard could an angel bestow upon a demon friend who was keen on plants and who had just the other day expressed an interest in cultivating a closer relationship with the family _Orchidaceae_?

The orchid-monger had shown Aziraphale photographs of the flower in bloom. Aziraphale had also been led to a special part of the greenhouse and allowed to view a live specimen. 

The moment he had laid eyes on that strange beauty Aziraphale had known it was perfect for Crowley.

The sepals—they were not petals, the orchid-monger had corrected Aziraphale twice—were three and large and, though light green colour, decorated with many black veins. The sepals tapered to long, thin tails, which were not unlike a certain demon’s tongue if they’d been forked, which they weren’t. The true petals and the lip of the orchid were in the centre of the fan of black-veined sepals. They were pale and marked with purple and pink veins. Aziraphale considered the arrangement of the flares and folds of the petals just a bit naughty.

Aziraphale was himself, it must be said, just a bit naughty, and the idea of giving Crowley a gift not only personally fitting and seasonally appropriate but also slightly suggestive of the notion that Aziraphale was thinking of Crowley _in that way_ , well, let’s just say it caused Aziraphale to flutter his fingers and utter an ‘I say!’ of joy and hand over the necessary funds with undisguised alacrity.

The orchid also came with a brochure, which Aziraphale always appreciated.

Aziraphale left the greenhouse imagining it: day after day, before those delighted reptilian eyes, the slow unfolding of the singular richness of the flower which hinted at an undead character of fiction. The appeal was on many levels, Aziraphale decided.

Aziraphale proceeded directly to Crowley’s flat.

“I ha-ve some-thing for yo-u!” he sang into the intercom after Crowley answered the buzz.

“Come on up, angel.”

* * *

Crowley was delighted with the orchid. It was a thoughtful gift. That its presentation had been accompanied by an affectionate squeeze of Crowley’s upper arm and a welcome invasion of Crowley’s personal space was an added pleasure.

It was October, and Aziraphale, in Crowley’s opinion, was very much a pumpkin spice kind of angel.

Aziraphale eagerly accepted Crowley’s invitation to a spot of lunch, and Crowley steered them along an indirect route to a certain little place where they knew them just so he could watch falling leaves of crimson, gold, and bronze cascade round his friend and listen to a nattering one-angel, two-sided debate about should he have worn a scarf.

At lunch, Aziraphale and Crowley talked of many things, including orchids, and Aziraphale asked permission, as if Crowley wouldn’t permit the angel whatever his ethereal heart desired, to visit the plant and view its progress. Crowley agreed.

“No berating it, Crowley.”

Crowley had been known to bully, if not to say terrorise, his plants, but he’d already decided to restrain his tendencies for Aziraphale’s sake, and he said as much.

While Crowley watched Aziraphale put away a bowl of butternut squash soup with chili and crème, a wild mushroom tartlet, and a generous portion of apple and blackberry crumble, he nursed a cup of black coffee. He also conjured up a fantasy of the day the orchid would bloom. In Crowley’s reverie, Aziraphale and he were standing over the plant arm-in-arm like proud parents, and then Aziraphale, overcome with emotion, threw himself into Crowley’s embrace. Nature took its course.

Wait, orchids needed humidity and heat, didn’t they? That would dictate a certain state of undress. Aziraphale might, Satan forbid, forgo the waistcoat and roll up his shirtsleeves. Wasn’t _that_ something worth contemplating? Crowley revised his daydream accordingly.

Crowley walked Aziraphale back to the bookshop, vowing to dedicate himself to the tending of his new gift.

The next day Crowley renovated his plant room, making a little hothouse out of half of it. He tried, as best he could, to reproduce a cloud forest on the slope of Mount Pichincha of Ecuador, where the _Dracula vampira_ grew wild. He mounted the little bundle on a board of cork oak bark and surrounded it with the best mosses. He installed filters and pumps and timers. He calibrated the humidity, the heat, the light, every element under his control.

And then he waited.

After a week, there was no joy except Aziraphale’s visit.

* * *

“Oh, goodness!” Aziraphale exclaimed when Crowley stripped down to a black sleeveless vest before reaching for the knob of the door of the hothouse.

Crowley shrugged. “Suit yourself, angel. I don’t mind sweating, Hell’s not exactly clement, but I don’t like to get the threads damp.”

He had a point. Aziraphale removed his suit jacket and hung it on a hook before following Crowley into what he called Crowley’s conservatory. Aziraphale referred to it as such because Crowley flushed in a rather charming way when he did so and slipped an ‘s’ or two.

“We must have faith, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, gazing on the brown lump which, admittedly, didn’t look any different from when he’d purchased it. “It just needs love.”

“Faith and love are your lot, I’m afraid. I’ve been fussing about with charcoal and mist and different mosses. I’ve adjusted the controls. You know, in the wild, it grows at an elevation of 1900 to 2200 metres, and I’m trying to reproduce those conditions. Not easy making your own cloud forest.”

It wasn’t until Crowley stepped towards the control panel that Aziraphale realised the fingers of one of his hands were twined with those of Crowley’s. Whether he had initiated the twining or Crowley, Aziraphale couldn’t say. Regardless, he was thrilled and didn’t let go. The hothouse was not large, and they could remain tethered without strain.

“Maybe it needs some friends. Like companion flora,” said Aziraphale.

“That’s a good idea.”

Aziraphale was sweating. He really wanted to remove his waistcoat and roll up his sleeves, but because he had not taken utter leave of his senses and thrown all decorum to the wind, he offered to return to the greenhouse for suitable candidates. He made a quick exit, reluctantly releasing Crowley’s hand, and said good-bye.

* * *

“There was something odd, though,” said Aziraphale two days later. He was perched on a stool watching Crowley potter about with the ferns he’d brought.

“What’s that, angel?”

“I tried to find the person who sold me the orchid, but she wasn’t there. And, apparently, no one at the greenhouse has heard of her or anyone matching her description.”

Crowley stopped pottering, turned and frowned. He made a noise. “Impersonating an orchid-monger? Is that a crime?”

“I don’t know. She seemed to know her stuff.” 

It was hot and humid. The walls of the hothouse, Crowley couldn’t bring himself to call it a ‘conservatory,’ as if there were blackmailing rogues and despoiled virgins hiding in the foliage, were fogged.

Crowley wasn’t immune to the appreciative looks Aziraphale was casting in his direction, and he was wholly chuffed he’d succeeded in getting the angel to leave home wearing only two layers of clothing.

“And there were plenty of other helpful staff,” continued Aziraphale.

“So all’s well that ends well.” Crowley waved a trowel at the ferns. “Maybe these pals will coax our friend to show his face. ‘Come out and play, Vlad!’”

“Do you think he’d like more companionship?”

“What do you mean?”

“I could read aloud to him. I read some plants like it.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “You want to read aloud to my orchid?”

Aziraphale shrugged and bit his lip. “I just want it to bloom, Crowley.”

“So do I, angel.” The symbolism wasn’t lost on Crowley, and the idea of having Aziraphale in his flat for even longer durations was not an unpleasant one. “What are you going to read to him? Not the Bible!”

“No, of course not.”

“It’s a _Dracula vampira_ , so I suppose Stoker’s bit would work.” 

“I have a copy at the shop. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

Crowley was wonderful, Aziraphale thought. He’d taken Aziraphale out for a scrumptious dinner and made a little nest in the conservatory for Aziraphale to sit comfortably while he read to the orchid. Aziraphale had succumbed to temptation and unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves. It was so warm, and the air was so thick with moisture, heat, growth. Fecundity, really. The conservatory reminded Aziraphale of the Garden of Eden. In a good way, not a flaming-sword-losing way.

And, really, Aziraphale considered, October, the time leading up to Hallowe’en, was Crowley’s season. After all, he looked so good in all black, and he was so deliciously menacing as he sashayed about town doing his demonic business that he often got asked on the street by strangers if he would take a role in their for-charity haunted houses or pose for their spooky Tik-Toks, whatever those were.

Aziraphale opened the book and began to read. He made some progress with _Dracula_ , he did, truly, but after a while, he felt the urge to read something else. He surprised himself when he opened his mouth and outpoured some of the more romantic bits of Song of Songs.

“How’s it going?”

Aziraphale jumped. “You startled me!” Had Crowley heard him doing what Crowley had specifically asked him not to do?

“Sorry.”

“We’re doing fine, just fine,” said Aziraphale quickly. He scanned Crowley’s face, but he saw Crowley’s attention was on his bare forearms. Aziraphale hid them under the open book. 

“All right.” Crowley jerked his head and sniffed and turned away. “I’m just going to make a few adjustments. I’ve got some idea that lowering some of these might help. And then, I’ll leave you to it. Stay as long as you’d like.”

Aziraphale picked up where he left off with the chronicle of poor Jonathan Harker and did not stop until he fell asleep.

* * *

“Angel.”

The ache in Crowley’s heart at watching Aziraphale wake was dull and heavy and wonderful.

“Hmm?”

“Look.”

Aziraphale sat up. The copy of _Dracula_ slid to the floor.

“Oh, Crowley!”

“Yeah, a stem and some leaves. Four, by the looks of it.”

“It’s a good sign, Crowley!”

“Yeah, it is. Whatever we’re doing, it’s working.”

Crowley looked down and noted Aziraphale’s grip on both his forearms and smiled.

* * *

Two weeks flew by. Aziraphale spent almost every evening in Crowley’s conservatory. His and Crowley’s efforts were rewarded by the stem and the four blade-like leaves breaking forth and extending spindle-like. Then, at the tip of the stem, a bulb formed.

Aziraphale took to leaving his bow tie at home, and Crowley learned to make hot cocoa in his hither-to-unused kitchenette. Sometimes Crowley shifted into his snake form and coiled around Aziraphale while he read, and Aziraphale petted and stroked the lengths of scales, waiting until he heard tiny reptilian snores and saw the relaxed flickering of the tip of the forked tongue before he switched from _Dracula_ to the most tender of Biblical verse.

“You know, it’s strange, angel,” said Crowley, scratching his head as he looked at the controls. “These conditions, by my calculations, are what you might find at a lower altitude, 800 metres lower, than what this brochure indicates.”

“An aberration?” suggested Aziraphale. Then his tone turned fond. “Like a demon who likes to sleep and drive a flash automobile?”

Crowley grinned. “Or an angel who likes warm jacket potatoes with butter. And bacon. And sour cream. And chives. And garlic. And—”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale shot him a flirty look, then he turned his attention to the orchid. “The bulb is a great sign. Another week and we’ll have a flower, Crowley.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Me neither.”

Five days later, however, Aziraphale was not so excited.

The bulb looked healthy, its demon caretaker not so much. Crowley was unusually pale, and his normally bright eyes were fogged with, Aziraphale noted, what looked like pain.

“Crowley, are you all right?”

Crowley mopped his brow with a rag and swallowed. “I seem to be under the weather.” There was a note of incredulity in his voice.

“Ill? But demons don’t fall ill!”

“I know.”

“Maybe you’ve been working too hard with the orchid?”

“Overtaxing myself? I’m a demon, for Satan’s sake!” Crowley rubbed his face with his hand. “It’s just a plant! I’ve handled much larger campaigns than this.”

“Have you a better explanation?”

“Do you smell anything funny, angel?”

Aziraphale was momentarily distracted by Crowley extending his forked tongue its full length and wiggling it in the air.

“Do you?” pressed Crowley.

“Uh,” Aziraphale sniffed, “it’s faint, but, uh, I think it’s hops?”

“Hops?” Crowley leaned over the plant. “It’s coming from the orchid. It smells,” he wrinkled his face in a grimace, “ _good_.” He made a noise of disgust.

Aziraphale gulped. “Maybe it’s me.”

“I know what you smell like!” snapped Crowley testily, but when he saw Aziraphale’s crestfallen face, he melted. “I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean it like that.” He stepped forward with open arms as if to fold Aziraphale in them, but Aziraphale stepped back.

“I think I should go, Crowley.”

Crowley dropped his arms and looked sad and nodded. “Of course. Text me when you get home, angel.”

* * *

When Crowley wasn’t tending the orchid, he spent the whole of the day in bed, muttering to himself, “Demons don’t get the flu.”

* * *

Meanwhile, in Soho, Aziraphale was occupied with fretting about Crowley.

“—orchids?”

Aziraphale was jerked out of his anxious musings by a voice. He inwardly cringed. It was a testament to his state of mind that he’d forgotten to turn the sign on the door to ‘Closed.’ The last thing he wanted was a customer!

“Excuse me?” asked Aziraphale.

“How much is this book on orchids?” The man held a dusty tome in his outstretched hand.

Aziraphale blinked. “Are you an enthusiast, sir?”

“I’ll say! Winter Wetterburn’s the name.” He touched his hat in an old-fashioned way that Aziraphale appreciated. “I like the gamble! And the danger!”

“Gamble? Danger?”

“Sure! It’s always a gamble! You never know what you’re going to get. You buy this little clod of earth. It might die. It might grow into something nice and respectable. It might be something no one’s ever seen before and bring you botanical immortality. Or it just might,” he gave Aziraphale a knowing look, “try to destroy you.” 

“Indeed?!” Aziraphale thought of Crowley. “Have you first-hand knowledge of this, the destroying part?”

“I do.” He brought his hand to his throat and tugged at his collar, revealing lines of scars.

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. “The book is complementary if you’re willing to share your experiences.”

“Sounds like a deal to me! This is a gem!” He patted the volume. “I love telling the story.”

“Tea?” prompted Aziraphale.

“Milk and sugar, please!”

“…so the rootlets were, in effect, sucking your blood?” said Aziraphale.

“Just so! If my housekeeper, God bless her, hadn’t broken the glass on the greenhouse and pried them from my throat when she did, well, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you now, Mister Fell.”

“And when you bought the plant, it was unlabeled?”

“Yes, I thought it might be a Phalenopsis, but I was wrong.”

“It didn’t, well, it didn’t look like this, did it?” Aziraphale grabbed a sketchbook and proceeded to reproduce, to the best of his ability, Crowley’s orchid.

“Oh, no. I would’ve known if I’d had a _Peristeria elata_. I would’ve been the envy of the whole Orchid Society! And the auctioneer would’ve been a dolt for having sold it to me at the price he did!” He chuckled. “Orchid buying is a game of chance, Mister Fell. I suppose someone might have been that lucky once, but I think I’d have heard about it.”

Aziraphale had a sinking sensation in his gut. He tapped his drawing and said weakly, “This isn’t a _Dracula vampira_?”

“That?!” Wetterburn snorted. “No, it is not.” He set his cup of tea in its saucer and took up the book he’d wanted to purchase. He flipped through the pages and turned it open towards Aziraphale. “ _Peristeria elata_ is native of Panama but found as far south as Peru. Lovely white bloom. Like a dove, according to some.”

Aziraphale stared, with horror. It _was_ the orchid, Crowley’s orchid. He read with a trembling voice, “ _The Holy Ghost orchid_.”

Wetterburn nodded. “Very rare. Said by some to have miraculous powers. Vanquishing evil and such. Rubbish, of course, but there are always stories about orchids. Why I remember…”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening. He was thinking about an ill demon and an orchid-monger that no one had heard of. He swiftly went through the necessary pleasantries to send Mister Winter Wetterburn on his way. 

Aziraphale was, by his nature, slow to anger and abounding in love.

And now he was wholly, completely, and ethereally _pissed off_!

He stormed out of the bookshop, without bothering lock up or slip his mobile in his pocket.

* * *

“Come on, angel,” mumbled Crowley to his mobile. “Pick up the phone. It’s blooming.” After the third time it went to voicemail, Crowley threw his mobile down. He was gripping the edge of the bench. The hothouse smelled like an unwashed drunk, but the bulb was at the point of bursting.

It was time.

Crowley leaned closer. He could swear the flower inside wasn’t black, but white. Maybe it turned black when it opened?

He tried to reach Aziraphale again and was frustrated again. There was one silver lining. Crowley felt like utter shite and knew he didn’t look much better. He didn’t want Aziraphale to see him like this. He wanted their moment to be special and beautiful. Like this bloody orchid was supposed to be!

Crowley sighed. Why did he feel so wretched?

Oh, it looked like the orchid was finally opening.

Crowley stared.

What? What was that? A dove?

The cloying scent was overwhelming.

“OH, GOD!”

Crowley reached for his mobile as he fell and tapped one word.

**Help!**

* * *

When Aziraphale stood before the Quartermaster of Heaven, he was not himself. 

“What are you doing here looking like that?” hissed the Quartermaster in a state of high indignation, which was, to be fair, his permanent state.

“I need another one,” said Aziraphale.

The Quartermaster huffed. “You think Holy Ghost orchids grow on trees?!”

“Well, actually, they’re epiphytes so, yes.”

“That’s as maybe,” the Quartermaster growled, “but you were issued one, and one you shall have. If you spoiled it or lost it or damaged it beyond repair, that’s just too bad. You’ll just have to plump for promotion with a new, more competent demon-killing scheme!”

The Quartermaster took his red rubber stamp and pounded ‘Request Denied’ twice on a blank counter for good measure, but Aziraphale was already gone.

* * *

CRASH!

Aziraphale hurled a heavy clay flowerpot into the glass wall of the conservatory, and a whoosh of warm, wet, beer-reeking air hit him in the face. Directly he leapt through the jagged edged hole and over Crowley’s prone figure and yanked the white orchid from the makeshift tree. He hurried back the way he’d come and ran to the window, threw it open, and launched the whole thing, sepals, petals, stem, roots, and earth, into the autumn evening.

Then he went back to Crowley.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale fell to the floor and drew Crowley’s head and shoulders into his lap. “Come back to me, please.” Aziraphale brushed Crowley’s cheek and bent to press his lips to Crowley’s forehead. “Please, Crowley, come back to me. I love you.”

Suddenly, Crowley’s chest heaved, and he coughed a loud, rattling cough. He rolled to one side and coughed more while Aziraphale rubbed his back.

“The orchid,” wheezed Crowley. “White!”

“Heaven tricked me! It was a Holy Ghost orchid, not a vampire orchid!”

“Ngk! Bassstardsss!”

“It could’ve destroyed you!”

“Almossst did.” Crowley coughed and turned back, looking up into Aziraphale’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley. Please know I’d never do anything to hurt you deliberately, I swear!”

“I know, angel.” Crowley turned his head and took in the shards of glass and clay, the strewn soil, the cold breeze, and the sounds of traffic in the street below. His eyes rested on the huge hole in the wall. “Not that I’m complaining, but you could’ve used the door. It wasn’t locked.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “True. But it’s my nature, Crowley, to be, well, you know.”

Crowley coughed. He knew Aziraphale wasn’t talking about being an angel. “Did you give me the Kiss of Life, angel?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“It’s my nature, Aziraphale, to be, well, you know.” He raised his eyebrows.

“I do know. And I love it.”

Aziraphale smiled. Crowley smiled.

Aziraphale bent his head low, and Crowley raised his head high, and their lips met.

* * *

“You wouldn’t believe it!” cried Winter Wetterburn to his housekeeper later that night. “I was walking in Mayfair and all of a sudden,” he gave a cry, “and there, falling through the air, plummeting to earth, was this!” He held up the orchid. “A _Peristeria elata_ in bloom! I caught it in my very hands! I can’t believe it! I waited, just in case, the owner came to claim it, but no, no, no one rushed from the building. No one even popped a head out of a window. This is a very rare find. I can only hope it will survive its fall under my care. I told you, my dear, orchids are strange and wonderful business!”

The housekeeper shook her head as her employer trundled off with his trove and made a note to sharpen the axe hanging on the wall, just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
